


Made For This

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Again Heavy Violence, Angst, Child Abuse, Hint Of Torture, Origin Story, Perfect Relationship Anyway, Pic Prompt, Sort Of Wordy, Toxic Relationship, Unpredictable Jim Is Unpredictably Predictable, War is hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Moran came to be in Moriarty's employ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made For This

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt based on a pic a group member posted and challenged people to write about. Once again, a ficlet became a lengthy one-shot. I can't promise you anything, but it was... interesting to write, to say the least.

 

 

 

 

                                                     

 

 

 

Coppery, slow-moving liquid.

A tang of adrenaline.

And raw meat. 

It was a cocktail that never failed to cause a spike in his core body temperature and make his blood sing. 

***

He wasn't much one for flashbacks, but ever since he was that servile, undersized child, constantly belittled by the entirety of the tiny village just outside of Kilkenny, when that combination filled his head, he was right back to the day he finally snapped. The blast zone had been immense. His father didn't survive it. But only because his little brother hadn't survived his father. 

He didn't care much for anything as a general rule. It was too much figurative and literal pain. The sheer guilt he felt over being unable to rescue his younger brother from the pounding hands of their father taught him that. He didn't even have the luxury of blaming the drink, as Da was always sober as a judge when the beatings happened. Little Jimmy was six and small as well, with black hair and giant dark eyes. He wouldn't stop crying for the hunger pains in his belly that day. Sebastian, who was thirteen at the time was kept home from school to care for him whilst their father went to work a random shift he would pick up here and there. He came home early, let go for fighting and caught Sebastian giving Jimmy his portion of bread. Their father declared it yet another display of weakness from both of them and, by the end of it, had been stripped of his belt and choked to death with it. Sebastian had no idea where he found the strength.

Jimmy's last words were a Christening. He said he always knew it, that his big brother was a tiger. It was his teeth, sharp and numerous. Sebastian had sunk them into their father's flesh to distract him long enough to get the belt away from him. It was also the way he growled as he did it and continued making predatory sounds whilst dispatching that soul to Hell where it belonged.  

The Tiger of Ballyfoyle.

No one bothered to solve their father's murder. They just cremated Jimmy and, with a pinch of the boy's ashes in a sealed locket with a picture of a tiger on it, Sebastian Moran went out into the world. He began a fitness regime he'd seen in old journals, remaining wiry, but covering his frame with lean, hard muscle. What he lacked in size and strength, he made up for with speed and general lack of fucks given. Living on charity and larceny, he shot up and, within a year, was taller than most, besides becoming stronger and meaner. The issue became his lack of direction. Without it, he was chaotic, would just as easily laugh at a teasing jab as cut a person's throat for it, and anything in between, depending on his mood.

A few crimes and a sympathetic judge bent on making an example of him later, he found himself with the choice of the military or prison. In the Army, there were loads of disciplinary reports, some that never got filed. His methods may have been crass, but they were precise. They got the job done quickly and most efficiently, keeping his superiors in too much awe and, when they could turn a blind eye to his bending of the rules, too little paperwork to have him discharged for whatever trouble he caused.

Then came the one thing that couldn't be stricken or covered up enough to warrant his remaining in. 

He was to await the signal, as he peered steadily through the scope, whilst his team members got into position around a house which was harbouring a member of the terrorist organization they were hunting. It was supposed to be in and out, with Moran there for cover. 

The whores there were magnificent, providing him with their secret stores of fine alcohol and expertly cleaned uniforms for a pittance. As he waited for her to return with clothes to conceal his status as a British military man, he looked out the window, a hand-rolled cigarette of the highest caliber tobacco he'd ever tasted clamped delicately between his signature teeth. He saw a local boy of about six, pilfer a loaf of bread and run to a spot only visible to the side window of the room he was in. He tossed on the clothes, got his uniform, and immensely overpaid the woman. He always tipped well for good service. Having learned a bit of the language, he argued stall keepers down to their lowest prices within minutes and, a moment later, was looming over the child, tossing him the cheese and meat he'd purchased to go with the bread before going on his way.

It was the same boy, in that house they were about to raid. It appeared he'd brought home a portion of his food for the rest of his family, but his father could be heard shouting even from where Sebastian was set up. Something about pride and begging. Before the first slap landed, Moran was tearing across the distance between his firearm and the target. By the time he kicked in the door, the man already had some sort of leather strap he was using on the child. He'd first threatened Moran, then hit the soldier in the face with it, giving the Tiger of Ballyfoyle a shot of that encouraging mixture. Moran snatched it out of his utterly surprised grasp and nonchalantly looped it about his throat. Now, as opposed to when he was a young, underfed teen, he could kill with one hand and swat away the screaming women tugging on him and begging him to stop with the other. Of course his team was shouting at him as well, but he was numb to it all. He instead informed them that their target just bolted and they needed to hurry if they wanted to catch him. By the time they returned, Moran was covered in blood and surrounded by bodies, smoking the same way he had been that morning. No one paid attention to the fact that he'd released the boy and his mother with a wad of cash, just the sheer destruction he'd caused and how dead his pale green eyes were as he surveyed it.

Even then, they'd managed an honorable discharge, provided he go to a head shrinker. He fucked her in her office on the first visit. She was alright. Clever, lovely, but too much on her high horse and needed to be taken down a few pegs. So take her down he did. Twice. She wanted to have him sectioned for manipulating her so thoroughly, but Moran had made off with the recording of their... session and his file. By the time she would be able to get authorities into it, he'd be long gone, and, he suspected, she probably was a bit more than hesitant to air her own dirty laundry. 

Eventually, however, the lack of a commander took its toll and he ended up sectioned anyway. It was as if he were a prisoner on a space ship, or a villain in a super hero film with the amount of blinding white and observational glass present. He'd never even heard of the Machiavelli Wellness and Research Center. It seemed rather posh for a common thug such as himself, the staff well-trained and able to deal with his outbursts efficiently until, over time, he was able to be calmed with a simple word or action. He'd at least been allowed to keep his locket. 

He quite suspected some form of hypnotism but couldn't ever be sure with all the strange tests they ran alongside the basic ones. He earned privileges such as being allowed a fitness machine in his cell, and higher quality meals. At one point, he even had a television, but it was only connected to a DVD player, though a library of films grew in the little book shelf he had.

When they sent a lovely little bespectacled thing with a cracking rack, wild dark hair, and an accent from the Americas somewhere in to collect a semen sample, he knew for a fact that this place was completely off. He hadn't gotten a leg over in quite some time and she was just what the doctor ordered. Quite literally, he supposed. They even had introduced an outside curtain, to give them a bit of privacy after the initial extraction so they could have more fun. 

It was the weirdest place he'd ever been in, but there was anything he could want, including rules and regulations, though he wasn't quite sure what they could be for the others. They had him 'practicing' with false weapons, though they were weighted to feel like the real thing. At one point, they took everything but the exercise equipment from his cell and replaced it with the counterfeits. He counted thirty consecutive days like that, where there were only the most basic of needs met. Well, basic except for sex with another person, and there was nothing he could do about that as no one entered his cell during this run, not even to bring him his meals. They just appeared at various times during the day through a side slot in one of the walls through which he couldn't see. Perhaps once a day, he wondered what he was being punished for, before getting on with it as there was a list of offences longer than three of his six foot frame from which anything could have been chosen.

He thrummed with nervous energy, pacing his space for hours, sometimes muttering to himself, sometimes singing. Out of the blue, he looked up and spotted him, watching intently through the glass. Sebastian walked right up to his side of it, inwardly gaping. The Man was... well what Sebastian had always imagined Jimmy would look like as an adult, when he allowed his mind to wander to such inane things. The man was little, hair black as tar, cut and combed precisely. The suit was bespoke and the deepest of blue like his tie, artfully contrasting against the pale of the man's skin and his white button up. What got him the most were the Man's eyes. Sebastian swore they changed colour with the gears of the Man's thoughts. They went from nearly black to a combination of brown, green, and even a touch of gold that was so close to Jimmy's eye colour and shape, it nearly brought the generally unfeeling soldier to his knees. Even with his stature and resemblance to the most helpless creature Sebastian ever knew, it was clear this was the one in charge. Effortless command oozed from his very pores, making him seem much taller than he actually was. With a snap of well-manicured fingers, the cell door opened and orderlies scrambled in to set up a small table and two chairs. Next, came a tea tray laden with the beverage for which it was named and a plate of fruit, cheese, and Moran's favourite biscuits. Lastly, a pristine tumbler and a sealed bottle of Glenlivet was set carefully in front of one of the seats before everyone left, even closing the curtain. The Man reappeared at his door and it was shut.

Hands tucked into his pockets, those eyes scoured the spartan room with a feigned aloofness that somehow made Sebastian very nervous. In behaving unpredictably, he'd become an expert at predicting someone else's movements or motives, sometimes even their words. But this man was ice and steel beneath a flesh cover.

"Sit."

His voice was soft and rather high-pitched, as expected. What Sebastian didn't expect was the compulsion to comply immediately. It became suddenly clear that this bespoke suit was the Man's uniform, and he was a superior officer.

Moran eyed the whiskey and glanced at this new commander who, with a slight nod of his head, gave permission. The first fingers went down quickly, the second was savoured as the soldier started in on the biscuits. And all the time, those eyes were on him, assessing his every movement, seeming to analyze them all. It was unnerving as hell, as if he had several eyes instead of just the two. The Man sat regally in the unoccupied seat, as if it was a grand throne instead of a simple folding chair, and watched him some more. When he caught Moran's eye, he purposely looked between the pot and his empty cup. Moran not only poured the tea, he figured out, through a few subtle visual cues alone, how much sugar and milk was wanted. The Man lifted the saucer and brought the cup to shapely lips and, with another small nod, permitted Moran to go back to his snack.

Sebastian was internally near panic. Maintaining his cool by the skin of his teeth, the liquor helping a lot with that, he waited to be addressed. 

"You have questions," the Man said after what Moran counted as thirty minutes of silence, his words dipped generously in the drawl of Dublin.

"Yes, sir."

"Oooh ' _sir_ '! You understand who's in charge already. Clever boy." His face lit up with a delighted smile that was rather infectious. Moran managed to keep his own minimal, cautious. "But then again, I expected nothing less. Ask away. Off you go." The Man drained his cup and Moran prepared for him a second cup without even thinking about it.

"What..." He was about to ask what the place was, but it was obviously an experimental facility of some sort, though whether or not it was associated with the military remained to be seen. "Why am I here?" he inquired instead.

"Oh, my dear Sebby," he inwardly flinched at the hated nickname, the last one calling him that antagonistically having to be scraped off of the walls when he was finished with him, "why are any of us here? What is the meaning of life?" it was rather a dramatic question, delivered with the expected pomp.

"Doesn't matter," he answered simply, shrugging and pouring himself another drink then attempting the cheese. That retort apparently warranted another full five minutes of contemplation.

"That," the Man finally said, "is exactly the correct answer." That gave Moran pause. "None of it matters. The only thing we can do is have fun until we reunite with the Devil."

"Where do I come in?"

"Even in chaos, a certain order must be maintained for the purpose of maximum enjoyment. I know you agree." Moran only nodded and took another small slice of that rather delicious cheese. It was smokey and thick, like this man's eyes. "Even the most fun games must have rules and I've been searching, Sebastian. I've been searching for someone to enforce said rules."

"But I'm a bit of a nobody. What could I possibly do?" He wondered, as soon as he said it, why he was able to give any sort of voice to his insecurities. That was a most dangerous game in and of itself. He took the suddenly appearing fag with what he thought was much more appreciation than the situation warranted and counteracted what outwardly was just a look, but inwardly bowing and scraping, by slumping back in his chair after it was politely lit. He inhaled until his lungs burned, reveling in the sensation and taking a mini holiday watching the smoke dance between them, up to join the rest of the white in the room.

"Being perceived as a 'nobody' as you call it, is actually of great advantage to the entire operation. The key phrase being 'perceived as'. If you were actually as common as you seem to think, you'd be useless to me, rotting in some prison somewhere until the day you were overwhelmed and got yourself slaughtered." He raked those interesting eyes up and down Moran's torso, even more lean and fit these days in his fitted cotton vest, in a manner that the ex-soldier could almost physically feel. "It would really have been quite a waste if I hadn't found you. Luckily, I have a few connections in the system that look out for cases such as yours. The... uncommon ones, as it were. I like my pets to have a special something." Removal of those eyes to another surface was just as strange a feeling as having them on him, Moran found. He sort of wanted them back and that, in and of itself was so very bizarre. It all was, if he was honest. He didn't even flinch about being called a pet and, what was worse, didn't even think about it until much later, when traipsing the halls of the facility. 

"So it's basically here or prison."

"Basically. And trust me, Tiger. Here with me will be so much more fun." 

"Yeah," he said, exhaling the last of the cigarette and tamping it out in the saucer closest to him. "Yeah alright." Again there was that spark in the man's eyes, that communicable smirk.

"Any more questions?"

"Yeah. Have you hypnotised me?" 

The Man giggled as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, a very slight edge of mania on the outskirts of the sound. "I admit only to a bit of training," he said still coming down. "Nothing so manipulative as that. But then, I don't really have to with you, do I?" He had a point. Another finger snap had the door opening, a set of clothes and good boots brought over and handed over. Moran didn't hesitate to begin dressing immediately, enjoying being in something other than pyjamas. The top was thermal, the trousers comfortably fitted with many pockets, over lush socks fit boots he could run miles in without even a hint of discomfort. They made a comfortingly heavy sound as he trailed a little behind to punctuate the rather casual clicks of his new-what was he? Boss, he supposed. He took in his surroundings as they traveled a different route than he was used to through a door he didn't even know was there. This was the point when he noticed how closely it actually did resemble a kennel. It turned out there were rows of cleverly concealed doors that lead to cells identical to his along one wall, a row of the glass walls along the other. Some of the rooms were occupied with all manner of people. But, no matter their outward appearance, they all had the same look in their eyes, the one that would shift from almost feral to blank, the one he imagined he had.

He was lead to the range where he would practice before with the toy weapons. A familiar long table stood to his right when they stopped, only this time, it was covered in a camouflage tarp. The targets were, as usual, affixed with life-sized photographs of various faces. He never knew who they were and they would change often, but he never concerned himself with it past that. He did what he was told and uncovered the table, dropping the tarp to the floor with wide eyes. He couldn't have been more surprised and glad if it had been his father's head preserved in a jar under it.

Every sort of weapon, holster, and ammunition he could imagine was laid out, like a harem of beautiful women in every size, shape, and colour of the rainbow. He was half hard with the visual. The Man smiled benevolently, nodding his permission. Sebastian dove in with both hands, expertly working the various containers onto his person, effortlessly filling empty spaces, reveling in the weight of it all. They donned hearing protection and Sebastian emptied two entire magazines, several knives, and even a bunch of arrows and bolts into the present targets, all perfect shots and grinning like an idiot at his benefactor. The Man returned a rather paternal smile. Well, what Moran had seen on the face of fathers who actually gave a shit about their children.

Moran reloaded and re-equipped, swiping his hand across his nose several times, before the Man spoke again, cleaning nonchalantly beneath his already tidy nails with one of the wickeder knives. "Nothing quite like the genuine article, is there? I've always been partial to the smell of the oil and spent shells, myself." Yup. They were going to get along fine, he'd figured then. He stood at parade rest for long minutes as the Man ran his hands over the tools of destruction reverently, sometimes describing what they could do in detail that carbonated Moran's blood. It was a heady feeling, both hot and cold, just painful enough to feel good. He hoped the stirring in his groin hadn't been noticed. "Come!" the Man suddenly commanded and, sauntered off, Moran obeying without a hitch.

This time he was lead to a rather small lecture hall, the same blank white of his cell. Three rows of four chairs identical to the ones they'd used back in the apartment, seated every one of his handlers. He'd long ago become adept at memorizing things about people, faces first, even if he'd only been exposed to it for a brief time. He'd had the luxury of these faces as well as mannerisms and other observable traits the entire time he'd been there. He knew everything from their surnames to how they held a pen, to the fact that they never left the area. He'd gotten from his sexual release partner(Tesla-interesting surname)that they were not to say anything that didn't have directly to do with him around him. He'd subsequently recalled noticing the absence of a couple of orderlies that had begun speaking of some football match before the door of his sound-proofed room had fully shut.

Everyone but his little fuck buddy was present, however, as he followed the Man onto a small stage complete with podium, and, of course, a large throne, everything continuing the theme of being either clear or white. The man even donned white robes, draping a pristine sash over the back of his neck, and fitting a mortarboard with matching tassel to his head. Moran didn't move a muscle, but, in his heart of hearts, he was laughing his arse off at the madness of the situation. The Man tapped the microphone and, upon learning it was live, held his arms out in a grand fashion.

"This," he announced, "is a graduation! It is a reward and acknowledgement for a job well done!" He lowered those smooth hands to the sides of the podium, putting prints on the clear bits. "As you know, you'd all been hand-picked for this special project. It has taken me a lot of time and effort to bring you all together and the results, as expected, is all I could ever have dreamed! Here before you, stands the fruit of our labour." They burst into rather thunderous applause, the acoustics sharply amplifying it, as the Man held something up to the audience then turned to show Moran. From a metal ball chain hung two round metal disks, words printed on them rather too small to read at first glance, but he knew what they said. Blood group, service number, surname, initials, sex.

 

The Man ceremoniously lowered the tags around his neck, gripping them tight for a moment, close to Moran's throat as if cinching a tie... or fastening a leash to a collar. With him thus chained, the Man drew him even closer than how far Moran had bowed in order to receive them and, after a feathery kiss to both cheeks, began murmuring into the ear away from the audience. His words were specific instructions. In a sense, his first mission. There was an order and method for each item, as well as room for improvisation. Moran straightened up and gave a small nod of understanding. The Man told all present to dispense with the chairs and arrange themselves in a semicircle facing the stage. Everyone in the room but Moran was smiling happily in anticipation of the impending game/demonstration. The Man took what seemed his rightful place.

 

The Tiger was on the floor with them and four of the twelve were dead from a bullet to the forehead before anyone else realized what happened(Anderson, Boyle, Brown, Davies). Someone(Haines)caught him with an elbow to the nose, dosing him with his personal magic elixir and finally putting a smile on his face that stunned his terrified prey just before he opened his throat. Another(Higgens)had his spine severed with the same knife, covered in his colleague's blood. He extracted that knife and punched two approaching orderlies(Thompson, Williams)with it, but only hard enough to drive them back long enough to then toss the thing into the back of one of the ones banging frantically on the locked doors(Jackson)realizing the key phrases usually employed to subdue him were no longer working. It further proved he was in full control of his own mind so far. He pulled out a spare blade and, growling low in his throat, he leapt on another, plunging it into his(Jones) heart before swinging his gaze over to the next one(Sadler)who was knocked onto his back and was ended with a strategic boot stomp to the larynx. The following victim(Smith)did well for herself. She actually tagged him a few times and nearly took his left eye with clean, blunt fingernails. The lovely golden hair which he'd admired many a time proved to be her downfall, as he was able to get a hold of the unraveling up do, turn her about, and wrench her head around backward.

 

By this time, the last two had finally recovered and decided once again to pool their efforts. Moran shook out his limbs and loosened his neck with stretches as they approached slowly, ostensibly working out their strategy. There was a flurry of punches, kicks, and throws that only  _looked_  like pandemonium. It was evident that these two had more experience with hand to hand combat, at least one(Williams)from a military background. Whilst dealing with the one on the left(Thompson), the one on the right had reached the one with the knife still sprouting from his chest(Jones)in order to apologetically retrieve it.  Moran made for the dais, snatching the Man's sash from around his neck with a cheeky wink and meeting the unarmed one on the other side. It was disappointingly easy to choke him to death, pulling so hard with the quickly twisted fabric that it broke skin. 

 

Knowing there was nothing he could do for his colleague, Williams reworked his plan. Moran allowed him to think he was coming to him, back down on the main floor. Williams proved to be a bit too into showboating, however, flipping and twirling the knife as he executed dance-like footwork. The Tiger wrapped the ends of the sash around his hands then remained perfectly still but for his eyes, crouching a bit, muscles tense yet ready for anything. Suddenly there was a kinesthetic burst and the sash was fast around Williams' wrists, crossing them, as well as the hand holding the knife, edge toward his own throat, so that he could not release it. It then became a matter of stamina, each man strained with all of his might, the air in the room thick with anticipatory tension under the smell of blood, sweat, and adrenaline. Moran was in his element, however, and a surprise steel toe to a specific area of the other man's groin gave him that millisecond he needed to drive the blade home. Williams fell to Moran's feet like a pile of rags.

 

The only two alive in the room were laughing hysterically, like two old friends at the pub who had feasted on the best spirits and worst jokes. The Man was clapping wildly, showering him with praise as Moran stood panting, covered in the grime of his work, only wiping it away from his mouth with the back of his hand, again giggling at how the little finger of his left hand hung at an awkward angle, the pain still quite distant with how perfectly high he was on the thrill of the kill.

 

"That was one of the most brilliant things I have ever seen," the Man stated after they'd calmed a bit more. "And I have seen some things, pet."

 

"I'm sure you have, to have set up a place like this," Sebastian answered.

 

"Hoo, boy!" the Man sighed. "Tiger is definitely the correct name for you, all the growling and such. With that last one, I could almost see your tail flicking back and forth."

 

"That right?"

 

"That is right."

 

"Gave me a bit of trouble, that one. I should have expected a ringer."

 

"Yes, well, being prepared for anything is part of it. I'll have to make sure and keep you on your toes. You never know when and where danger will strike." He'd made his voice even more high pitched and warped it a bit. It was meant to be comically spooky, Moran was sure, but there was an element of truth in it that made him very uneasy, and he wasn't one to be rattled. "Though," the Man began pulling off the robes, having already dispensed of the mortarboard, "I'm unsure whether or not to count that one, as you were to use an improvised weapon. Ah! but I suppose the manner in which it was used counts for something. High marks across the board! Well done you!" 

 

"We aim to please, Boss." 

 

"Boss. Hm. I like it." He pushed his hands into his pocket and strolled down from the stage, taking his time to examine each bit of the devastation on the way to the door with a content expression. Sebastian slowly followed, a thought suddenly slamming into his head as he collected his knives, wiping them of on his already soiled top before replacing them in their holsters. He'd given his life to and murdered for this man... whose name he didn't even know. He lifted his head mouth open, inward breath taken and, as the Boss punched buttons on a key pad in a hidden panel to let them out, he said smoothly, "Jim Moriarty. I'd shake your hand but," his remarkable eyes did one last sweep of the beautiful carnage, "I don't like to get them dirty, if I can help it." He then turned and walked out, calling behind him, "That's your job. This'll be so much  _fun_!"

 

***

And here he was, several years later. Time seemed to pass in fits and bursts, fitting Jim's changeable moods and the results of various jobs. The choice had gone rather quickly from Jim or prison to Jim or death as Moriarty seemed to have fixated on him in those first few months after they'd met face to face. Moran was strangely alright with that. Even with the random abuse he endured, everything was just as he needed it to be. It wasn't as if he had a plethora of choices in employment that would let him drink, smoke, shag, and travel around the world to meet interesting people, sometimes get to kill some of them. Didn't much matter if he was called in at the last minute.

 

That's why, when he found himself meeting Jim in the back room of some seedy, out of the way dance club somewhere in the bowels of Eastern Europe, he didn't even bother shaving his three days of growth during his five minute shower or combing his hair that seemed to go in every direction despite its lack of length when he got off the plane. The only identification he'd required were his dog tags and a hanging bag which contained one item, an expensive, expertly tailored midnight black suit jacket. He pulled it on, leaving the bag in his plane seat and dozing in the tinted windowed car that met him on the tarmac after equipping himself with the contents of a large, hard case with his name on it. Well, his title, anyway. It was one of Jim's little jokes to make the firearm's finish orange with black stripes.

 

He apparently fit right in, the bosses all dressed impeccably, security manifesting in almost exactly what he wore, down to the black cotton tee shirt and worn slacks. Only his slacks were of a higher quality, his jacket, loads better. It was odd to him every time he felt it;  _Special, Better Than, Above..._  and he didn't even have to hurt anyone to feel that way, not that the injuring/killing bit didn't crank the entire sensation up to eleven, it was just weird.

 

Someone's spoiled son entered, speaking the local language, dripping in cheap women and cheaper cologne. He antagonized the others for sport, as they seemed unable or not allowed to retaliate. His look was a question, but the Boss shook his head very slightly. He had to wait. For now. It wasn't so bad when the muffled music pounding from outside the door prompted the Ladies to use him as a dance pole. His Nibs was fine with it until they began to make a game of getting as much crimson lipstick on his mouth as possible. He never returned the advances, standing stone still during the whole debacle. Well, mostly still. There was a decided interest stirring in certain areas and, once it was noticed(as it was extremely difficult not to notice, according to... well... everyone), the tosser began pulling them away. 

 

Moran dragged his right hand across his lips, the cosmetic coming away looking almost like blood. Jim was giving him an enigmatic smirk as he slightly held his now covered hand out in a gesture that asked if he could be excused. Another little shake of the head and a wink and Moran had to endure a semi and smeared lipstick. He'd had to tolerate much worse and so, just went back to his 'at-ease' stance. It was clear that the rest of the people in the booth were acting as if Moriarty wasn't the most powerful person in the room. He felt it was safe to say, that the compact firebrand loved to lull those around him into a false sense of security. He also knew, that if he behaved himself, he'd be allowed to at least maim the little wanker as the boy had begun to hurl insults at him in broken English. 

 

Jim picked up a piece of what looked like pierogi between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and, with a placative smile, in his most soothing tone, said something to the others in the group in their own language. Moran suppressed his own smirk. He understood two words.  _Dog_  and  _Cat_. The others were appropriately aghast and the 'dog' got to his feet at this.

 

"I will not stand for this insult," he declared.

 

"My dearest Filip," Moriarty addressed his food, not even deigning to acknowledge the impending tantrum, "you already have. Sit." Unfortunately, when Jim used that tone, he was not to be disobeyed. "Now Antoni, I'm afraid I'll have to insist on being compensated for this slight." Antoni was massive, with dark, greasy hair.

 

"I apologise, Mr. Moriarty. My nephew, he is spoiled." Antoni then gave the boy rapid instructions which he stomped off to carry out.

 

"Careful. I enjoy spoiling my pet as well and his pleasures are often a bit more... destructive." Antoni's bulbous face blanched a moment as Filip reluctantly slammed down a tumbler and sloppily poured first Jim then Moran an overflowing glass of some clear liquid he could smell from where he stood slightly behind his boss. Jim toasted his permission and they drained their glasses before, without even turning around, Jim gently commanded, "Right hand ring finger. Do try and salvage the ring, Tiger. It's quite lovely." He then lifted a corner of the table cloth to protect himself from possible spatter and removed his plate just in time.

 

Everyone else froze in terror as Moran was around the table with one of his favourite blades pressing down on the appropriate spot before anyone had time to blink more than once. It was severed in a thrice, Filip's screams freeing the astounded others from their various fixed points long enough to draw on both Moran and Moriarty. The latter continued eating as if he were at a casual function, looking only at his food.

 

"I suggest you put away your weapons, gentlemen," he said. "Mm. Best pierogi I've had in quite some time." He put his plate back on the blood-spattered table cloth and used the cleanest bit closest to him to wipe his hands and the ring that had somehow skittered across the table . "It's always the little out of the way places that have the best food. Isn't that right, Sebastian?"

 

"Usually the case, sir."

 

"Mm." Jim got to his feet and put his hands in his pockets as if he didn't have four guns pointed directly at him. The other bosses had already fled with Filip in weeping tow, Antoni stubbornly staying put. "Well! Looks like I'm off. Unfortunately, I've decided we won't be able to do business in light of this... incident. You understand of course."

 

"Of course," Antoni replied with feigned politeness as Moran moved slowly toward his master, so as not to arouse attention. 

 

With a sudden grand shove, Moran shouldered Jim behind the pillar by which he'd stood, taking out two of them before they even go a shot off, the third's gun predictably jammed then misfired, taking his own eye at the very least if the shrapnel didn't penetrate his skull. He was awfully quiet as he fell, so that may have been the case. Going by the state of their side arms, the last one jammed as well. "Oh, damn!" Moriarty lamented from his spot on the floor behind the pillar. "This was my favourite jacket." A bullet had torn a gash into the left shoulder of it. The second Moran took to assess that the blood present around the tear was transfer of his own and not Jim's, however, gave the last guard enough time to realize how his own weapon was now useless in its original function after the first round had successfully fired. Moran caught it right between the eyes. But how the goon had the strength to pull the trigger was beyond him, going by the impact of the gun on his face. Still...

 

Coppery, slow-moving liquid.

A tang of adrenaline.

And raw meat.

 

His prey was petrified, probably by Moran's maniacal, sharp-toothed cat-like grin as he cleared the table and sunk the blade into his throat. At this point, Antoni was trying to maneuver his gelatinous form toward one of the discarded weapons. Jim had stood and brushed himself off, grimacing at his jacket's demise once again before staying Moran's hand so they could be entertained by this a moment more. Finally, Moriarty headed toward the door with a drawled, "Bored." stopping only to recover a pristine Rolex from one of the bodies. He'd apparently gotten lucky, the bootlegger that sold it to him had been unaware it was genuine. That was Moran's cue to put one in the back of the Antoni's head and clean off his knife before stuffing it back into its holster.

 

"Ain't it going to be a bit harder to get information out of him now, Boss?" Jim stopped and turned to face him, one of those unpredictable expressions plastered on his face, a toothpick added to the look. 

 

"Cheeky," he said neutrally. "He already told me what I needed to know ages ago. Of course, he didn't know that." He walked back toward the ex-colonel. "And frankly, I'm at a loss as to why you feel I must explain myself to you." Without hesitation, Jim stabbed his tooth pick into the graze Moran had acquired protecting him then slapped him in the face as hard as he could, wiping the blood and lipstick off of his hand onto the whole arm of Moran's equally unsalvageable suit jacket before turning on his heels to amble toward the exit once again. With a grunt of pain, Moran extracted the tooth pick and gingerly touched his jaw as he made to follow. "Oh, and Seb?"

 

"Yeah, Boss?" He snatched the hurled object out of the air with his right hand.

 

"More your style, I think."

 

He opened his fist and was unsurprised to find Filip's ring, a chunky metal monstrosity set with a large, oval stone.

 

Tiger's Eye.

 

Of course.

 

  
_Apology accepted_ , he thought to himself, stepping over the carnage to follow his commander.

 


End file.
